BEFORE THE STRAW RIDE
The straw ride did not come off the next evening, after all, for there
were signs of rain, then it was decided to wait for a moonlight night
when they could go to a small village where ’Lish informed them they
could get ice-cream that was “lickin’ good,” so with such a prospect
in view they all concluded it was worth while to wait. In the meantime
there was plenty to occupy them, both during the day and in the
evening. Generally the whole party would congregate on the porch after
breakfast where they would “train” as ’Lish called it, till some one
would say: “I’m going out on the lake.” This would be the signal for
a “scatteration.” Some would take to the canoes, others to the woods.
Those more indolently or quietly disposed would either remain where
they were or, with a book, would seek a hammock under one of the great
trees. In the afternoon there was usually a gathering at Place o’ Pines
where a cup of tea could always be looked for, the girls taking their
turns in serving. Miss Helen and Mrs. Corner enjoyed this outing, as
indeed they did many of the others. Dr. Paul and Mr. Wells always
returned to camp with the party, staying to supper and returning when
the time came for lights to be out.
During this time Nan took more than one opportunity to steal off by
herself that she might work secretly upon the little sewing case she
was making. That for Dr. Paul had been the work of the first rainy day
when all sat around the open fire industriously sewing. Mary Lee had
fashioned a like case for Ran, Daniella had made a fac-simile of her
own for Hartley, being assisted by Mrs. Corner, for Daniella had not
had much experience in such things and needed instruction. She was,
however, so careful to obey directions, and was always so anxious to do
her best, that she really did not turn out a bad piece of work. Effie
had been persuaded by Ashby to try her powers on a case for him, so
there was work enough for all hands, and for more than one rainy day.
Jo, though expert enough in sewing up wounded fingers, declared she
could not do fancy work, and indeed the little case she attempted for
Miss Helen was such a funny-looking, clumsy affair that every one
laughed at it except Miss Helen herself, who insisted upon keeping it,
saying it was quite in character with the rough clothes she wore at
camp.
It was one morning when all the rest had taken themselves off canoeing
that Nan stole away to the woods for a quiet hour. She carried a book
and her work, and sought a certain shady nook where the pine-needles
made a soft carpet, and a plantation of ferns, a short distance off,
was a pleasant thing for the eye to rest upon. A trickling stream
wound its way between weedy banks, and in one specially clear and
still pool the birds delighted to take a daily dip. It was a charming
spot, and one which Nan had come upon suddenly one day when looking
for mushrooms. She had been attracted by some curious and brilliantly
colored fungi growing beyond the open field where she was, and had
penetrated the thicket to discover the pool, the ferns, and all the
rest. On this particular morning she had hardly seated herself when she
heard a rustling in the pathway which she had worn from the open to her
nook, and looking up she saw Dr. Paul.
“Caught you,” he exclaimed. “Aren’t you a sly little somebody to steal
off this way and never give an inkling of where you were going? If
I hadn’t seen your yellow kerchief in the distance and followed its
beckoning flame I might have searched in vain through these pathless
woods.”
“And have been a pathless Woods yourself.”
“Oh, come now, call that off. We’ve been having jokes all summer about
dense woods and gloomy woods, though I must confess this is the first
time pathless has been served up. What were you going to do? Read?”
“Well, I did bring a book.” Nan was too honest to actually declare this
to be her main intention, though she did make use of the subterfuge.
“I brought one, too.” He put his hand in his pocket. “Suppose I
read while you work. I see you have that pretty feminine thing, a
sewing-bag.”
“Oh, I don’t believe I care to work,” Nan answered with a little regret
for her unfinished buttercups, “but I should enjoy hearing you read,
and in being lazy. What is your book?”
“Oh, something I picked up from Marc’s shelves. I haven’t really looked
at it.” He turned the pages over. “Oh, I say, it’s Italian. I only saw
the title and didn’t realize that the Dante was in the original. Stupid
of me not to open it.”
“He reads Italian then?” Nan was pleased to make this an excuse for
talking of her hero.
“Or else picked up the book because he liked the binding. Marc is like
that, you know. The utilitarian doesn’t specially appeal to him.”
“I suppose that is the way with most artists. They like interesting
things whether they use them or not.”
“Yes, it is, I believe. They are a queer lot. There was Marc’s friend
over in Europe starving himself for the sake of an idea. He was a
queer study, that fellow, yet one couldn’t help respecting him for his
absolute heroism in devoting himself to the thing he most cared for.”
“That is the one they call Crackers, on whose account the angels will
lay aside another trailing feather for your wings.”
“Oh, nonsense. I didn’t do anything of any account. Any decent doctor
would have done the same for one of his countrymen. We won’t dilate
upon that subject, Nan.” The doctor was really confused.
“Such funny names, Crackers and Pinch!” continued Nan, her thoughts
still on the subject of Mr. Wells and his friends. “What sort of man is
this Mr. Romaine?”
“Oh, not altogether a bad sort. Does a little illustrating in a
dilettante way, has a wealthy dad, you know, and has a studio in New
York all gorgeous with Eastern things and armor and so on. Marc and he
have it together.”
“Yes, he told me.”
“By the way, Pinch is coming back next week, and I believe his sister
and Miss Kitty Vanderver are coming, too. The ladies are going to stay
at the White farm, and then they will all go home together when Place
o’ Pines is closed.”
Nan felt as if a cold hand had suddenly clutched her. With these would
come farewell to the happy little reunions, to the walks and talks, to
the moments when she found herself by the side of her artist friend.
“And you will be going, too,” she said ruefully.
“Yes, my holiday is nearly over and it has been a royal one, though I
must say, Nan, I haven’t seen as much of you as I expected.”
“That’s what Ran was complaining of a few days ago,” Nan told him. Just
because she was the eldest, the most grown up, why should they want
to monopolize her? “You see,” she went on, “we generally are all in a
bunch together, and there isn’t any seeing of any one in particular.”
“Oh, yes, there is,” replied the doctor with meaning.
Nan flushed. There were times, she well knew, when she had stolen off
as she had done this morning, and there had been other times when the
violin had been played to her alone, but with quick wit she turned the
tables on the doctor. “Do you know,” she began, “that all summer I
have been hoarding up a grievance against you?”
“You have?” The doctor looked genuinely surprised.
“Yes. What business had you lightly to give away my confidence?”
“My dear Nan,” the young man looked distressed, “what do you mean? When
did I ever do such an iniquitous thing?”
“When you told Mr. Wells about little Nan Corner and her Place o’
Pines.”
The doctor looked overwhelmed with remorse. “I am in dust and ashes,”
he said. “I acknowledge my offense. It has been on my conscience all
summer, but I thought you seemed quite satisfied, and I was relieved
that you didn’t resent it. I suppose I told it at some time when I
was waxing enthusiastic over my friends at home, over you, Nan--I do
that once in a while--and one of the entertaining tales I told to show
how original you are was about your music and Place o’ Pines. I never
dreamed Marc would notice the name, or, if he did, that he would use
it, or using it, that you would ever hear of it.”
“Oh, yes, I understand. Can’t you think up a few more excuses?” Nan
inquired, rather enjoying the situation.
“Oh, I could, if those are not enough. I really never gave a thought
to the possibility of the thing’s coming out as it did, but it was
pretty mean of me to shout abroad your little secret, that you had told
me in confidence. I ought to have known you would treasure it, even
when you grew older. Indeed, Nan, I’m awfully sorry. I will get Marc to
change the name if you say so. He will do it in a moment if he thinks
you care.”
Nan did care, but not in the way the doctor supposed.
“Marc may have his faults, but they are not those that would make him
stiff over a matter of this kind,” the doctor went on.
Faults? Was not Lohengrin a perfect knight? But feeling that Dr.
Paul had been sufficiently punished, Nan said, with an appearance of
generosity, “Oh, I really don’t mind, Dr. Paul, not in the least. Mr.
Wells discovered that I was the originator of the name and I gave him
permission to use it.”
“Oh, that puts another face on the matter. Why didn’t you tell me in
the beginning, you little tease?”
“Because I thought you deserved some slight punishment. Now you have
had it we will drop the subject. Where did you leave the others and
what have you been doing this morning?”
“I came straight here as soon as I reasonably could. I saw all the
canoes out on the lake when I came away from the studio. I left Marc
putting the finishing touches to the study he made of Jack. He had a
sudden fit of industry this morning, consequent, I think, upon his
hearing that Pinch is about to return.”
“Then laziness is one of the faults you referred to.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I shouldn’t say that. I never saw a fellow work
harder when he is in the humor; on the other hand when he loafs he does
it quite as enthusiastically, which is probably the right way. He will
paint all day, very likely.”
“Is Jack sitting for him?”
“No. He thinks he will not work any more on the figure, but is doing
the interior. He is putting in some still life and things.”
“Do you think he paints well?”
“I think he is best in landscape. What do you think?”
“I think that, too. I think he needs to study figure more, and besides
I believe he has more feeling for out-of-doors than for indoors.”
“That is about the correct criticism, I should think, though I don’t
profess to know as much as you do about such things. What have you
decided about college, Nan?”
“I think, taking all things into consideration, that Barnard will be
the best.”
“I am glad it is no further away, though I did hope you would go no
further than Baltimore.”
“Aunt Helen and mother think it will be pleasant for me to be near the
Pinckneys. You know Mercedes is coming on to the wedding, and they are
begging all of us to spend the winter in New York.”
“And will the others?”
“No, the girls must go back to Miss Cameron’s, mother says, and she
can stay in Washington all winter, for it will not be quite so hard a
climate. We are hoping Mary Lee will be ready for college next year, so
I shall have her.”
“I hope then that she will be ready. You think you will like the
college?”
“Oh, yes. Aunt Helen approves of it, and, when I can go, I shall have
a chance to hear good music which I can do better in New York than
anywhere else.”
“Of course, I can understand that such opportunities as New York
affords for music would be a great factor in your decision. What about
Miss Jo?”
“We don’t know exactly. She is trying for some tutoring. If she gets it
she will enter Barnard with me.”
“She is a bright little body. I never knew any one more capable.”
“We all think that, and isn’t she the very best sort of companion? If
she goes to Barnard it will be a very strong reason for my going, too.
If ever I get in the dumps Jo will be there to pull me out. She can
so much more easily find stepping-stones in New York than elsewhere
that I think she is pretty sure to enter with me. Charlotte Loring is
at Barnard, too, and that is another thing in its favor. I was rather
surprised she didn’t choose Radcliffe or Wellesley, but she said she
thought it would be better for her development to go further from home,
and Charlotte is nothing if not conscientious. She’d live on nails
and wear dried peas in her shoes if she thought it better for her
development. She and Jo hope to room together as they used to do at the
Wadsworth school, so I shall have to have a strange roommate or be by
myself. I think perhaps I’d rather room alone.”
“And after college, what? More travel?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I am not looking so far ahead. One never can tell.”
“Those were good old days in Munich, but I am afraid we shall never
repeat them.”
“If we could have it all over just the same, I’d like it, but Aunt
Helen says I couldn’t, that there is always something different when
one tries to repeat experiences. For one thing you wouldn’t be there,
Dr. Paul, and that would make a heap of difference.”
“Would it, Nan? I’m glad of that. It would make a great difference to
me if I returned and you were not there, just as it will make a great
difference to all of us when you come back to the old Virginia home.”
“The dear old home and the dear old friends! I often long for them. One
does like the friends around that one has had a good time with,” said
Nan in a matter-of-fact way. “I shall enjoy college much more with Jo
and Charley there, but I shall miss Mary Lee and Dan.”
“Does Daniella aspire to college?”
“I hardly think so. She could not be ready for some years, and then
she would be older than most girls who enter. Still, if she sets her
heart on going Mr. Scott will allow it. Aunt Helen advises travel and
languages with a course of literature, rather than college, so no
doubt she will abide by what her friends and teachers suggest. She is
the most humble child in such matters, though as proud as Lucifer in
others. She is such a beauty I am surprised Mr. Wells didn’t ask her to
sit for him.”
“But he did ask you.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw the sketch he made and of course I recognized it.”
“Did he show it to you?”
“No. I came across it accidentally, and he admitted that you were his
subject.”
“Yet it isn’t very good.”
“Not very. We agreed that figure was not his strong point.”
“It just happened,” Nan went on rapidly, though she could not tell why
she felt that she need make an excuse. “Any one else would have done
who chanced to be on hand. It was that day we had the picnic at Upper
Pond.”
“I know.”
“Oh, do you?”
“Yes, I recognized the spot as well as the figure. Nan, my child, don’t
put your trust in princes.”
Nan looked up startled. What did he mean? What had he observed?
She knew that her friend, like all physicians, was given to close
observation. Did he guess that there was a secret chamber in her heart
where she had enshrined Lohengrin? She picked up the book which she had
brought with her. “I thought we were going to read,” she said with a
nervous laugh. “No, let’s go.”
She started to rise. The doctor sprang up to help her to her feet. He
held her hands in his for a moment, looking down at the flushed face
and downcast eyes. “I have been reading,” he said gravely.
Nan caught up her hat which had dropped from her hold, settled it on
her head, and led the way to the open field. She said not a word but
kept ahead of the doctor along the narrow path. At the edge of the
piece of woods where the camp was situated he came to her side. “Nan,”
he said, “are you angry with me?”
“What for?” asked Nan with a little uplift of her head.
“Because of what I said just now.”
“I don’t remember your saying anything unusual,” she returned and that
was all the satisfaction she gave.
But that evening when they had gathered to start on the straw ride she
avoided her old friend, insisting upon Daniella’s sitting by her on one
side; the other was already occupied by Marcus Wells, and she was the
merriest of the merry, so full of droll sayings, so originally witty
and bright that Marcus wondered. “You are a creature of surprises,” he
whispered as the little company trooped up the street in search of the
“lickin’ good” ice-cream.
“Please to tell me why?” said Nan.
“You are usually so very quiet, such a dream-maiden, but to-night you
are like a star. There is no moonlight in your make-up, it is all star
beams and twinkling lights, all scintillation and sparkle. I thought I
knew you, but----”
“You see you didn’t,” returned Nan lightly as they reached the door of
the rustic ice-cream room, or parlor, as it was called.
Many colored and ornately perforated papers hung from the ceiling; on
the little tables were stiff bunches of paper flowers; on the floor
oilcloth. Behind the counter an apple-cheeked woman stood aghast at
the sudden descent of so many customers. “We’ve got vanil’, lemon and
strawberry,” she said, “only I don’t know as there’s enough to go round
of any but the vanil’.”
By dint of wise selecting it was discovered that there would be enough
to go around, and after buying mint-sticks and lozenges, peanuts and
pop-corn, the jolly crowd again mounted to their nest of straw and the
wagon bumped back to camp under a moonlit sky.
“Let’s make the welkin ring,” proposed Jo.
“What is a welkin?” asked Jean.
“It is a distant cousin to catkin,” Jo told her.
“Then how can it ring?”
“If a bell kin ring then a welkin ring,” returned Jo nonsensically.
“You are so silly. I don’t know any more than I did before,” complained
Jean.
“That’s because you don’t understand poetry,” replied Jo loftily. Then
some one struck up, “Wait for the wagon!” and immediately the welkin
did ring very tunefully. Effie was leading soprano, Nan sang alto, Dr.
Paul bass, Ran came in with a good tenor. Hartley tried sometimes one
thing, sometimes another, and the rest did the best they could.
“I knew you had a voice,” whispered Mr. Wells to Nan.
“I didn’t discover yours,” she returned laughing.
What had suddenly changed her? “It is not your wont, star-lady, to cast
reflections upon your unworthy slaves.”
“What does a star do if it doesn’t cast reflections?” demanded Nan. And
then some one began to sing their camping song so there was no more
chance for talk between any two, and at parting Nan was as nonchalantly
gay as any one.
“Put not your trust in princes,” she said to herself as she laid her
head on her pillow. “I don’t think any one could have discovered any
surplus amount of trust in my manner to-night.” But she could not find
it in her heart to harbor resentment against her old friend who had
always been so kind, and it was not really anger that she felt, but the
natural withdrawing of herself from the notice of one who had surprised
her secret, who had lifted the curtain unannounced. What a good long
talk they had had before that. It was always so. Heretofore she had
never been more at ease with any one than with Dr. Paul, but from
henceforth she feared there would be restraint. She was sorry, for they
had been such good friends. She recalled his many acts of kindness. Why
had he tried to intrude upon her fair thoughts? Why make the blunder
of convicting her with sentiments she had scarce confessed to herself?
It was too bad, too bad. Yet however she might resent his speech, from
this time out Nan gave heed to Dr. Paul’s warning, at least outwardly.
The dream-maiden was resolved into the “star-lady,” so Marcus Wells
took occasion to tell her whenever they met.
[Illustration: CHAPTER XVI
MISS PINCH]